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I was placed on Louisiana’s death row in November 1966. The state’s last execution had occurred in June 1961.

The state’s death row in 1966 had gained international attention because of the Edgar Labat and Clifton Poret case—two black men convicted of the 1950 rape of white woman in New Orleans. The convictions of the two men were reversed that year by a federal appeals court. They had spent more time on death row than anyone in the U.S., eclipsing Caryl Chessman’s previous record of 12 years.

One execution was carried out in the U.S. in 1966. James French was put to death by Oklahoma in August that year. Two executions were carried in the U.S. the following year—the last being Luis Monge who was put to death by Colorado in June 1967. That execution marked an “unofficial moratorium” on the death penalty in the U.S. that would last until Gary Gilmore was executed in Utah in January 1977.

There were roughly 30 men on death row when I arrived. I was one of seven white inmates housed there. It was a dark, dank world in which inmates lived in a perpetual limbo between life and death. Execution was not an imminent threat but it hung over every thought each day like a Damocles Sword.

The long term cell confinement of death row produced its own sources of madness—one inmate severed his penis, another slashed himself dozens of times with a razor, and two men daily engaged in a “fart war” with animus in their hearts. One inmate believed the Russians were monitoring his thoughts through Sputnik satellites while another 350-lb inmate went naked all the time as a form of “protest.” Another inmate, convicted of rape, believed that every time the word “rape” was spoken it was somehow directed at him.

This is what life and death uncertainty in a closed custody confinement can produce—so much more than a “low grade depression” Michele Obama recently spoke about.

Home confinement because of the Covid-19 pandemic bears some resemblance to that period when the nation’s condemned inmates lived in a world suspended between life and death as the unofficial moratorium played itself out. This pandemic crisis has created its own unofficial moratorium on living life in a normal manner.

We all now live with a siege mentality under Damocles Sword—knowing that the suspended sword could drop at any moment. One mistake, one miscalculated step could lead to infection and a horrible execution.

Covid-19 is now our death row custodian. We can try to escape it by pretending it does not exist or that its threat is not as imminent as experts tell us.

But we really know better.

One death row inmate would scream out in the middle of the night, “fuck, please hurry something.”

We all know that feeling of frustration. Life as we knew it has receded. Our relationships, our work, our play have all changed dramatically—and we don’t know when, or if, they will ever come back.

I was 21 years of age when I heard that death cell door slam behind me. Six years later, in November 1972, it opened and I was released from a death sentence to a life sentence. I had survived the siege mentality of death row.

Now in the twilight of my life, I must navigate myself and my wife through the siege mentality produced by social isolation. That fucking sword hangs suspended over our lives—masks, gloves, goggles, face shields, and six foot social distancing between us and all other forms of human life keep us safe in this uncertain world between life and death. Family communication is done through Zoom, face time, or cell phone—artificial contacts.

Michele Obama is right.

This nation is suffering from low grade depression—and so much more; more than we could ever have possibly imagined.

We now live, and survive, with a siege mentality.